


Magic Hands

by Tilltheendwilliwrite



Series: Bucky Barnes Reader Insert Stories [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Massage, Romance, Smut, тэг заменён на Don't copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-15 14:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilltheendwilliwrite/pseuds/Tilltheendwilliwrite
Summary: It’s massage conference time for me. I’m off learning new things, but figured why the hell not. Let’s give you some smutty massage related fiction, just because I can! I once heard Craig Ferguson say, “You can always tell when a man’s had a legitimate massage. He comes out relaxed, and slightly disappointed.”Hopefully Bucky’s massage ends on a happy note!





	Magic Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Smut (18+ lovelies) Me waxing poetic about massage therapy, Russian which may or may not be correct, swearing, sex, NSFW, fluff (because I can’t seem to get off the fluff train lately)

## A Bucky Barnes X Reader Fic

 

* * *

Warm, oil-slicked hands wandered the peaks and valleys of the well-muscled back before you. This, right here, was the best part of your job.

Being a massage therapist was tough work, hard on both body and soul, physically demanding and, often, emotionally draining.

The physical was a given. Hands, wrists, and elbows took a beating. Legs and feet grew tight and sore from hours of bracing and standing beside tables. Your back hurt, your head often throbbed with fatigue.

The emotional drain was often worse. The energy exchange between yourself and your client could be intense. Some people were equal parts give and take. They kept your energy up, made the circle complete, and gave back what was given. Others simply took, draining you of your bubbly nature, making you wish for music which wasn't the monotone nature sounds you were surrounded by. Still, more could have such a dark aura - depression, anxiety, despair - it took everything in you not to simply fall down on any flat surface and sleep the sleep of the dead to recharge. Those people, the ones who needed you most, whose bodies and hearts were usually so broken, were the hardest for you to work on.

Those people saw the word therapist in your title and took it at face value. The stories you could tell, the horrors which had been voiced by the bodies laid bare would shock most regular people. But it was all par for the course with this job, and no matter the cost to body, mind, or spirit, you _loved_ your job. Hands down, end of the line, put a period on it, loved being a massage therapist.

Days like today when you got to put your hands on a prime specimen of peak physical perfection such as the one and only Bucky Barnes, were icing on the cake days.

It had started out innocently enough. A call had come in, asking if you did mobile massage. It wasn't something you did often, not in this day and age, not with all the crazies out there, but when the voice on the phone told you who the recommendation had come through, you felt confident enough to agree. The voice was pleasant, female with an Irish lit. She informed you the paperwork you required would be filled out and waiting, along with a confidentiality agreement.

You bristled slightly, insulted. Patient confidentiality was part of your code of ethics. You would never reveal who your clients were without obtaining permission first. Still, someone needed you enough to go through all this trouble, so arrangements were made.

The address had sound vaguely familiar, but it wasn't until you pulled up in your Jeep outside the infamous Avengers Tower that you realized where you were going. Still, you didn't think anything of it, figuring it was for some higher up manager in Stark’s business who disliked going out in public or was simply too busy. It wouldn't be the first time people had worked through their appointment. Stupid really. Who wanted to work while they got worked on?

You'd managed to get parked in visitor parking, lug your table and rolling tote along behind you, making it to reception only slightly dishevelled. Even portable tables were heavy.

It was then security had appeared out of nowhere, ushering you toward an elevator before you could give your name or explain why you were there. It was weird, but whatever. You went with the flow, especially when the enormous man in the dark suit took the strap of your table off your shoulder. His eyes had grown comically wide as he'd quickly set it down. You didn't comment. People always underestimated how strong you were.

But, walking into the room where your apparent _client_ was waiting nearly had your eyes bugging out. It was on the tip of your tongue, right there, almost flying free, but you bit it back. _Holy shit! You’re Captain America_ , was not the best way to make a first impression.

Somehow you’d pulled your shit together, walked across the room with a smile on your face, and introduced yourself. A hearty handshake later, one for which he’d cocked an eyebrow - again, strong hands - you calmed your pounding heart, told yourself to get it together, treating him like any other client. It made sense, now, the confidentiality agreement. You signed without hesitation.

  
Captain Rogers had been in some firefight or another - you didn’t pay attention to the news unless a hoard of aliens were descending on New York - had wrenched his neck and one spectacular shoulder. _Down girl_.

Setting up as he talked, you walked him through what to expect, stunned a man his size had never found himself on a massage therapist table before. His sheepish blush and embarrassed mutter of how massage people had a different connotation in his day made you laugh. It wasn’t the first time someone had made that comment; you doubted it would be the last. You, however, were not the ‘happy ending’ kind of therapist. It was something you made clear which set him blushing, again.

He may have been a superhero, but in person, vulnerable and uncertain, Steve was kind of a big teddy bear. You just wanted to pat his head and tell him it was okay; everything would be alright.

Then he’d stripped his shirt off, wincing a little with the action.

As you tried not to swallow your tongue, you calmly explained for next time, he was welcome to wait until you’d left the room before getting undressed, but as you were only treating neck and shoulder this time, it was fine.

He’d blushed a third time, so damn cute, and climbed on your table. The man had beautiful skin, fantastic muscle, and one fine ass, even with his pants on. But you kept all those thoughts to yourself. It was a perk of the job which you relished.

Perks in your career could often be in short supply. More often than not you treated business women or men, homemakers, teachers — all shapes and sizes. Few people were ever this fit. It actually made your job harder when there was this massive bulk of muscle to work through but, hell, you weren’t complaining. Hands on a superhero? Yes, please!

It made you giddy for about ten minutes before you got your fingers into the problem. Humming in disapproval, he became another body on the table even earning a, " _What did you do? Fall off a roof?"_ smart ass remark from you. To your horror, that was precisely what he’d done. Ten minutes later, he was relaxed enough to doze off, snoring slightly, clearly exhausted. It was perfect, exactly what you needed to happen so he’d stop being so damn tense and let you work.

An hour later when you’d gently shaken him awake, he’d apologized profusely for falling asleep. It had made you chuckle, replying how a client going to sleep is like the highest compliment you could receive. It meant you’d done an excellent job. You didn’t tell him it was like winning the lotto, a rare and unique occurrence. Most people talked, which was fine. It kept your energy up.

One appointment had turned into three to dislodge the knot from Steve’s neck completely.

Then Natasha had wanted in. She’d been fun, surprisingly chatty.

Sam had booked in third, tired of listening to Steve wax poetic about magic hands, wanting to try them out himself. He’d slept through his appointment as well, then whined about missing out.

Wanda had been sweet. She’d claimed a weekly spot when she was around, liking the way your mind was, apparently, quite quiet as you worked. Also well in tune with energy exchange, her aura stayed restful, even if you got into excited debates on the latest chick flick to grace the theatre.

She claimed you were empathic.

You only laughed.

The best therapists usually were. They were also the most free-spirited — tattoos, piercings, weekends away at sweat lodges. You had a wild and varied group of female therapist friends. All as quirky and ridiculous as you were. It was glorious.

Weeks went by, then months. Eventually, everyone had climbed on your table at one time or another. It got to the point where you were there so often; they simply made you a room so you could stop lugging your table with you. Did you tear up when they showed it to you? Damn right you did. You’d blubbered like the girl you were, without shame. It was nicer than the room you worked out of at your clinic.

Shaking off the memory, you focused back on the body before you.

It had taken longer to convince Bucky to give you a chance. He was a mess, both physically and mentally. His body was a mass of scars and scar tissue. His mind a dark place. He was so broken; it had made your heart hurt.

You weren’t sure, but you figured Steve had finally blackmailed Bucky into getting onto your table the first time.

He’d been stiff, uncomfortable, nervous as hell. For an assassin, he wasn’t very good at faking like he wanted to be there. The only thing to come off had been his shirt, baring the mass of fucked up which was his left shoulder.

You’d tried hard not to hiss, staring at all the damage. It was atrocious! How could anyone do that to another human being? The instant you’d gotten your hands on him, you realized he was also starved for human contact. How long had it been since another had simply touched him, without pain or wanting something in return?

This man, a soldier, far stronger than anyone you’d ever met, was hurting, damaged. His aura screamed despair. No one would ever know about the tears which fell to land on the sheet that day as you worked slowly through overly tense back muscles. You poured your heart into your hands, every ounce of compassion you could muster.

He never did relax.

But he came back.

Seeing his name on your roster the next time had caused your heart to swell with joy. Your smile had been brighter for him than anyone else.

Again, the only thing to come off was his shirt. You couldn’t have cared less. You’d gotten your hands on him a second time, which was all that mattered. He still flinched whenever you came close to his scars, but it didn’t feel like he was going to leap off the table like last time.

Soon, two massages became three, then a dozen, then he was on your table nearly as often as Wanda. Eventually, the pants disappeared allowing you to get at his rather delicious ass. You weren’t about to turn into Phoebe off Friends and bite him in his succulent tush, but you’d thought about it.

The first time you’d tucked the sheet, pulling his shorts down beneath it, he’d tensed up tighter than a guitar string. Patting his shoulder, you assured him it was nothing untoward. Working through the glutes was good for his low back.

He’d cast you a look of disbelief over his shoulder, relenting only after you’d stood there, patiently waiting for permission. He’d growled out some sort of something in a language you didn’t understand before turning his face back to the cradle.

Figuring it was permission enough, you got to work. The next time, he didn’t even flinch. Not far down the road afterward, the shorts got discarded as well. You focused very hard on not thinking about the utterly nude soldier beneath the sheets.

With time and not a little effort, you built a program for him which seemed to be helping both the mental and physical damage. At least, it was how it appeared to you.

Now, as you worked your way through tight traps and stressed shoulders, you could enjoy yourself, not work so hard.

Like Steve, he had beautiful skin. It was smooth as silk where it was unscarred, but even those unsightly wounds couldn’t detract from his perfection. His back was broad, defined, heavily muscled and fully sculpted. His glutes were ridiculously round and firm. He had legs like tree trunks.

Seriously, who made a man like this?

The group in general teased you for your tendency to watch people walk. It was a pitfall of your occupation. A person’s gate, their stride length, how they moved, told you a lot about what was going on in their body. Sam called it _butt-watching_ , always asking if you were checking out his ass.

Nope. But you’d sure as shit checked out Bucky’s.

What man walked like that? Like he was coming to eat you alive. Like he’d seen something delectable, and he just had to have it by whatever means possible. Strut had taken on a whole new meaning. He always looked like he was going to kill you or fuck you. There was no in-between. It was oh so wrong. But so very right.

The man was becoming a detriment to your underwear drawer.

He was too damn hot, too damn sweet, for his own good.

Holding back a sigh, you moved around the side of the table. “Got to wake up, and turn over, soldier,” you call quietly, running your hand down his arm before reaching across the table to hold the sheet, making the turning easier.

Well used to the drill at this point, he rolled to his back, scooting down the table as he went. “Such great hands, doll face.”

You smiled, letting the sheet fall back into place. “You say that every time, Bucky.”

“I mean it every time.” His hands crossed over his chest, blue eyes closing, shutting out what little light there was in the room.

Face like a damn angel. The man was a lady killer.

Shaking your head, you let your eyes drift down to the other issue you had with him.

While the Bucky of before had been tense, the Bucky of today was a relaxer. When men relaxed that well, other parts of them tended to… _rise_ to the occasion. Not his fault, and truthfully you’d never noticed in other clients. There was always a rather hefty quilt or comforter on the table to help disguise such a thing. Bucky, however, ran hot and had turned to just sheets a while ago.

It was fine, really. You were a professional — nothing you couldn’t handle. You would simply ignore it like always.

The thigh your hands were currently wrapped around was a completely different story. They were thick, full, the muscle large and defined. You couldn’t get your thumbs in it, always ending up taking your forearm to his killer quads, a move which had you bending quite close to the rest of him.

He groaned softly as you went. “That’s the good spot.”

“Tight,” you couldn't help but say. “Pretty hard.” Glancing up, you found him watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. You blushed, looked away, and moved down to his shin.

“You alright there, darlin'?” There was a dangerous smirk on his lips.   

“Perfect, sergeant.” You’re just turned on, wound up, and wanted the edible man stretched across your table. Flipping the sheet back over his leg, you moved to the other side.

“You sure? You seem to be in an awful hurry today.”

You raked your elbow through his thigh, making him hiss. “Oh, sorry. _Too much pressure_?” you asked sweetly, smile devious.

He grunted, falling silent, and letting you work.

Lessening the pressure a little, you finished with his thigh. Tasty thighs, ones you’d like to grind down on until you were moaning, wet and aching, coming all over the thick muscle.

When you moved up to work his shoulder and chest, loosen some of the scar tissue which still pained him, he shoved the sheet down to his waist. “Bucky?”

“Wondering if you could do anything with that?” he asked, pointing at the mess of bruising along his lower abdominals.

Inhaling sharply, you gently touched around the area. “How in the world did you do this?”

“Training. Steve kicked me.”

You hummed irately. “Don’t I have enough work without the two of you beating the hell out of each other?” Pressing gently, you probed until he grunted. “Pain?”

“Yeah.” His voice was husky.

“A lot?”

“Yeah.”

“Here or more here?” you asked, pressing down on two different spots.

“Lower,” he hissed.

Frowning, you probed lower along his abdominal ridge. “I don’t feel anything, maybe a little heat, a little swelling.”

“That’s cause you’re not low enough, baby.”

You froze. “Baby?”

He’s suddenly nose to nose with you, metal hand on your ass, flesh cupping the back of your neck.

“Bucky?”

“We gonna stop dancing around this, (Y/N)? Or we gonna do something about it?” His teeth nipped into your lip.

“Bucky… I don’t… I’m not…” but your oil-slicked hands couldn't seem to get the message as they trace his spectacular abs.

“You want this, want me. I want you, too. Have since the second I climbed on your table.” His lips parted, pressed to yours, teased your lower lip with his tongue.

“How can you be so sure?” you asked, breathless, lips tingling.

He chuckled darkly. “I can _smell_ you. You’re so wet right now. Are your panties soaked, doll?”

Entranced by vibrant blue eyes, you nodded.

Metal fingers glided along your hip, around to pull the tie of your scrub pants, sending them falling to the floor. Then they were caressing your mound, down and under, finding the wetness his nose had told him about.

“Bucky… I don’t do happy endings,” you forced yourself to remind him.

“Not even for your man? C’mon, baby girl. Look what you’ve left me with.” He shoved the sheet out of his lap, revealing his beautiful, fully erect cock.

“That’s not fair,” you hissed. “I said not while I’m working.”

It was true. A few months back, Bucky had asked you out. You’d been going strong ever since. But work was work and life was life. You had strict policies about hanky-panky at work, which he very well knew.

“But, baby. I ache for you. Look how hard I am.” He palmed his cock, stroked it as you watched.

“You’re such a tease,” you huffed. You really shouldn't; it's so ethically wrong. Even dating a client was frowned upon. But it's Bucky, and he's touching himself and you at the same time.

_Screw it…_

Stripping off your top, well aware of the fingers playing with your core, you released the clasp on your bra.

His eyes followed every movement, making you feel sexy, so very desired. Fingers curled around the edge of your underwear. He gave it a jerk and ripped them right off you.

“Bucky!” you gasped, excited and annoyed at the same time. “I liked those pair.”

He only grinned. “I’ll get you others.”

Shaking your head, you gave him a shove. “On your back, soldier. If I’m breaking all my rules, I’m going to enjoy myself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When he laid back down, you pulled the sheet from him completely. Stepping on the foot pedal, you dropped the table closer to the floor. Things could get… slippery, and if you fell off, you didn’t want to go very far. A wicked giggle slipped past your lips as you kicked your clothes out of the way.

Grabbing the bottle of oil from its warmer, you climbed up to straddle one of Bucky’s thighs.

“It’s a good thing Tony only buys the best, or we’d break the table,” you quipped.

“What you planning to do with that?” Bucky asked, looking at the oil.

“Use it,” you moaned, grinding down on his massive thigh, closing your eyes in bliss. You rode for a moment, slicking your wetness over his muscle, enjoying the drag on your sensitive core. Hands of differing temperatures helped to guide your movement.

“I love it when you do that, baby. So fucking hot.”

Opening your eyes, you smiled. His pupils were blown, face flushed, cock straining against his stomach. He did enjoy watching you get off on his thigh.

Flicking open the top of the oil, you upended a generous amount into your palm, then dropped it to the floor. Slowing your hips, you lifted your dripping hand to your chest, let the oil tip over and cascade down your breasts.

His breath caught.

You rubbed the oil over yourself, squeezing your breasts up and together, thumbing across your nipples, continuing to grind down on his thigh, moaning softly now, aching, burning. “Bucky…” you sighed as the pressure inside you built.

“Fuck, baby!” His hands tightened on your waist, thigh muscle tensing beneath you.

Gasping, you dropped your hand to his quivering cock as waves of pleasure broke over you. Oiled-up, your palm slid over him with ease. Stroking in time with your riding. You twisted your fingers around him, rub over the head, circled the crown. The other hand dropped to his thigh, slick with sweat and oil as your orgasm overcame you, sending you spiralling. You bit your lip, trying not to scream when your legs clenched to his.

“Jeez, doll. Those hands of yours are amazing. Watching you ride, having your fingers on my cock, nearly lost it for a minute.” His voice is filled with strained excitement. It's gone deep and husky. Hands drag you up into his lap as he sits, swinging his legs to the table edge.

Your legs were thrust around his waist, arms over his shoulders. His cock hard between you, rubbing against your already over sensitive nub. “Please,” you begged.

“Like this, baby? You want to sit in my lap?”

Your nod seemed to turn him on all the more, a sexy growl coming from his mouth before his teeth are nipping your bottom lip.  

He lifted you up, plunged you down, filled you so full you threw your head back and moaned to the ceiling.

He laughed softly; his lips whispered over your throat as hard hands lifted and squeezed your ass, driving you down over him again and again.

The oil you’d spread on your breasts slicked between you, reducing the friction. The glide is intense, stimulating your nipples when they rubbed against him. “Oh… just like that,” fell softly from your lips.

Heavy breathing, slapping skin, quiet moans, all mixed with the sounds of birds and waterfalls which played from the speaker in the corner. The room was hot. Sweat beaded on your skin and ran down Bucky’s throat and your spine.

You tightened your arms, pulled him closer, and rocked your hips the best you could as his thick cock plunged over and over. It caught your sweet spot, made you moan.

The kiss you share is slow, leisurely compared to the frantic flexing of your hips. It shows how much he cared in the time he took with your mouth. Twisting, twining tongues, sucking lips, slow nips of teeth. “James…” you sighed.

“(Y/N)... you’re close.” He can likely feel the tightening of your walls, the way they fluttered impatiently.

Humming in agreement, you leaned back.

His hand snaked between you, found your nub, circled. It’s heaven.

A fire burned in your core, sparked outwards, and sent fireworks through all your limbs. “So close…” you moaned.

His teeth closed on your collarbone, and you cried his name.

Pleasure bursts outward, quaked through your thighs, filled your head with nothing but static as you shuddered in bliss. Panting, you looked to his eyes, finding they'd gone dark with lust. They're so deep a blue they’re nearly black.

He’s still rock hard.

It made you whimper when he stood with you in his arms.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to do with you,” he said, stepping on the foot pedal beside the table and raising it up. “Since damn near the first massage.”

“Oh?” you asked, brow arching.

He smirked as he pulled you from his body.

Dropping to your feet, you found yourself spun around, and pressed face down to your table. “Really?” you chuckled. It’s like every man’s wet dream.

He gave you no answer. His hands caressed your ass cheeks, squeezed. A thick head is once again nudging at your opening. Then it’s gone, and he’s dropping to his knees behind you. “But first,” he murmured.

Wet and warm, his tongue dragged the length of your slit, and you shuddered. He does it again, catching your clit with the tip, delving deep, nudging you with his nose until you were a writhing mess.

Hands scrambling, you clenched your fingers in the sheet. You're so close you could feel your toes curl.

He's back on his feet, thrusting hard, plunging deep without warning.

The force set you off. Burying your face in the table you cried out, praying there's no one beyond the door to hear you.

His hips are pounding, slapping against your ass. The fat ridge of his cock dragged over your walls.

The head rubbed your sweet spot with every pass until you don't care if anyone can hear you, and you screamed, “Oh god, Bucky! Fuck! Yes!”

His chest is suddenly pressed to your back, his flesh hand gripping the edge of the table as he uses it to drive himself deeper. “You like that my bad girl? My naughty little therapist. Getting taken from behind against your table,” he said quietly against your ear.

You released a soft mewl of pleasure, enjoying it so much more than you should.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Do you like having me fuck you on your table?”

His other hand is in your hair, arching your head back, making you moan. “Yes, yes…”

Teeth latched down on your throat, his shaft dragged over your sweet spot, and you came hard. Fireworks and searing pleasure. Shaking, crying, gasping pleasure which left you slumped bonelessly beneath him as he pistoned into your clenching sheath with near bruising force.

He made that sound you knew so well. The one halfway between a growl and a groan. It's all pleasure, intense, unbelievable pleasure. His cry of delight at having this simple, normal part of his life back.  

It broke your heart and stitched it back together everytime you heard it for you knew you're the one who's gotten him there. Work and dedication and love have healed so many of his hurts.

He swelled inside you, grew impossibly harder, drove deeper.

All you could do was sob a broken cry for it had never been so good between you.

Then, he moaned, and the hot wash of his release filled you. He's kissing your neck as he comes, sucking at it, nipping at your ear.

_“Moy angel, ty nauchilsya lyubit' snova.”_

The words rumbled deep in his chest as he slumped against you, his arms wrapping protectively around your exhausted form.

“What did you say?” you asked once you caught your breath.

He pulled away, lifting his heavy body from yours.

Your legs trembled, but you found yourself swept up only to be laid back on your table.

His eyes were bright, shining, as he leaned over you. A warm flesh hand tenderly cupped your cheek. His thumb caressed your lip.

You're not sure you'd ever seen him look so happy and relaxed before. So content.

The words are soft, whispered against your lips. “My angel, you've taught me how to love again.”

“What?” You may feel it, but neither of you has said it. You didn't want to push him if he wasn't ready.

“You and your magic hands, doll.” A smile broke over his face. “I think you’ve healed me from the outside in. I love you, (Y/N).”

Laughing joyously, you threw your arms around his neck. “I love you too, Bucky!”

He chuckled, standing up, so you’re sitting, still clinging to his neck. He wrapped his arms around your waist. “You think I didn’t know? Sweetheart, I can feel it every time you touch me.”

It turned your heart over and filled you with happiness. “Still, this isn’t happening again.” You motioned to your naked selves and the room in general. “It smells like sex in here now. How am I ever supposed to work in here and not think about riding your damn thigh?”

“Burn that incense stuff; it will be fine. And if you’re thinking about it, you could repeat the performance.” He smirked at you.

You only shook your head. “I don’t do happy endings, Barnes.”

“I don’t know,” he quipped, “I’m feeling pretty happy.”

Snickering softly, you pressed a smacking kiss to his lips.

The man was a sweet talker; he’d likely coax you into it again. You weren’t the only one with magic hands after all. Though, thighs of steel worked wonders, too, for convincing a girl to break all her rules.


End file.
